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So the drink is foamy
I can’t sleep without the foam.
Mind went paranoid.
Sleep became troubled.
Shut me down on pills and pills
The empty dark streets.
There is an isolation.
A glittering before the steel,
A Market before marrakesh,
Splash the mural in the breaks,
Lifetimes of morbid curiousity,
Focus in sharp contrast to a
Obfuscation from philandering eyes.
It is these Philanthropists,
that make me want to scurry
Like the small rat I am,
Under the car for safety.
The light has hurt my eyes
And I need to go lay down.
Friday, you say… When did that happen? I have no recollection of the last thirteen days breaking and nights falling; no memory of having slept through a single moment of darkness with my eyes fully closed; and no lingering taste of the last kiss you gave me. I run on autopilot, screening a life that I chose for myself, while living the parallel life that I wish I could give up everything I have chosen for.
Friday, you say… Does that mean that tomorrow is Saturday?
You showed up in a flurry of color through the hole in my head
Didn’t you see the sign,”don’t knock, just come to bed?”
Because I’m a messed up lover boy with a tendency to punch my own mouth
And ruin a nursery rhyme wedding by fleeing to the sunset in the south
There is an applause in your eyes every time they are opened
Can’t wait for the feeling of dusk in my chest and years of hopin’
But I look like I just lost a fist fight with 10 men 10 times my size
And I look like I lost a fist fight every time I look into your eyes
Don’t give me a challenge, because I’m dumb enough to try without thinking
And don’t give me that look, because I always forget that I’m not breathing
Gardens of Stone
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall
Through snow, wind, rain and all.
remains beneath our feet
Forgotten a generation after their demise
Left in silence the untended stones
as the empty shells rot below
Once love and hate and joy and fear
Life living unbridled and free
The gardens of stone.
you don't know who you are anymore, but that's ok, i do.
you are the ocean and you are
bursting over yourself,
dancing on the feet of children,
overflowing into the branches of the Missouri.
you are the graffiti on the boarded up windows
of New Orleans after the water washed away
everything we knew and left only
you are the light in my father’s smile
when he got the call from my mom that grey September,
saying, i know it’s still the worst day ever,
but i’m on a train out of New York City
and there are no more airplanes crashing,
you are the sunrise on September 12th, 2001.
you are the sound of grief and rage mingling with
the whisper of hope
in the wind.
The Bride Thief And Me
So he knelt down in front of me and
spat his words out at my feet
like a dog.
I am bad and
bad is me
I stole a bride and
took her to a different type of steeple
while you sat in the kitchen
watching the flies
watch the fruit rot and
the grass felt wet beneath my feet but she
And now he pleaded with me
“I need your forgiveness.
I do not want it gift wrapped,
in time for Christmas.
I want it in waves
in which to bathe my skin.
I want it to cleanse me.”
Finally, he cried
“I am bad and
bad is me and
my skin has become wrinkled with gin,
wine soaked, so
I am begging you to make me good.
I put my lips to his ear,
placed my hand over the other
so I knew my words would be forever trapped,
festering in his thoughts
“I once lay in your arms,
knew nights where you were my all and
willed you to consume me.
I once loved you, so now
there is nothing,
nor will there ever be anything
about this body,
or this heart,
that you robbed me of
the day you stole her.”
I am a writer
I am a shaking hand from too much caffeine
I am the space between 3 and 6 am
When the world is cold and silent
I am slurred words and nonsense thoughts
Half drunk on sleep deprivation
I am unshed tears
Hiding behind tired eyes
I am rough and inkstained fingertips
Smelling of handsoap and new paper
I am the dream you can’t remember
But still smile about
I am the voice of both self doubt and reason
I am the quiet coffee shop down the corner
That sells cappuccinos and homemade muffins
I am a writer
Was I supposed to be impressed
by how pleasantly
you never had emotional tendencies toward me.
Thank-you dearly for
burying me in a pit,
then remembering to water the soil afterwords.
It made it so much easier
for the bitterness to grow.
Eventually the grudge will vanish,
but the pain will not.
At least you were decent enough
to clean up all the metaphors
you made me write about
your lovely mess.
You can’t get out of this life alive
My grandpa said
While raising his glass
Of gin and ice
To cracked lips, dry
Scratchy white whiskers
Always chaffed my cheek
His grip tight
On my small arms
Spinning yarns of the Depression
Bean sandwiches for two cents
And his special runs
For the speakeasy
He saved everything
Reused the styrofoam trays
From the butcher
His cast iron skillets
Seasoned from the fried goetta
Grandpa rumbled around
The old house on Erwin Terrace
While his vintage Mercury slept
In the garage
And grandma’s stilettos lived
In the closet
Then he decided it was time to go
I miss our Tuesday night suppers
Simple food, never fancy
Watching Wheel of Fortune
In my youthful ignorance
I was always eager to leave
Discomforted by his wisdom
Now, I feel a kinship with him
I remember his words
His explanation for the gallons of gin
That disappeared down his throat
And his slurred speech
Of late evening
Might as well enjoy your days
You can’t get out of this life alive
Questions from the Flowering Bulb in the Bower
This bulb ululates enormously
like a throaty harmonica player
on a porch up in New Hampshire.
It ululates in the bower
beside my bedroom window.
Tiny buds emerge from its peak.
My tutor is curving me around
the baleful bulb,
whose subtle texture speaks.
I seldom speak to my garden,
but it has often questioned me.
It doesn’t ask me who I am,
it only asks me, who is she?
I find myself inquisitive when wondering
where your thoughts go as you give into
the glass of amber liquor that scorches
the heart in divine hope of forgetting
that without the sun or the moon, there is
nothing beyond the realm where you
forbid the wave from washing upon
my shore, where you forget that the rain
needs not return to the clouds when it
belongs gliding along the cheek as you lean
in to kiss the lips left so void in denying
the passing of my feelings for the one who
has brought along the balm to the scar
that lays between my breasts.